Bad Advice
by Mariposa Indigo
Summary: Men In Tights slash, Rottingham/Prince John. Yes, I know I'm going to be laughed at a lot for this. In prison, John begins to remember dreams of what might have been...


_I'm sure you wonder, brother,  
why I'm grinning through my shame,  
when that wasn't quite its purpose-  
but to mock you's not my aim.  
  
It's just that, be it chamber pot,   
Or wooden outhouse on the lawn,  
You've just declared that every Latrine  
is to be called John.  
  
That little ditty up there, also penned by me, inspired the mess you see below you. It's a lot more amusing, and probably better written. ::grins::  
This is the most reluctant I've ever been about a piece of mine, so let me just say that I couldn't get it out of my head (dear God, I've only seen the movie one and a half times, and there are just too many SIGNS), and I've seen this pairing before (once, but nonetheless...), so I know I'm not alone in my thinking. The two times I directly quoted the characters are probably wrong, the time frame I put certain conversations is probably wrong, the characters are horribly off, but hey, I've been told I'm a damn good writer, so love me and I will love you!   
I don't own those people who play Rottingham and John, whoever they are, although I wouldn't mind Cary Elwes, but that's another story. Mel Brooks is a genius, and I mean no disrespect. Respond, since you bothered to read all this, and on with the show!  
(And there was much rejoicing! ...yay...)_  


  
Bad Advice  
"Have mercy, brother...I got some *really* bad advice from Rottingham." - Prince John  
  


John studied the letter in his hands for what seemed like the hundreth time, reguarding it with a mixture of emotions. Pity came to mind. A murmur of dread. A decent measure of amusement in spite of it all. The faint beginnings of memory, which he pushed into the back of his mind, trying to lock it there firmly.  
It was in Rottingham's familiar scrawl, one John had always chided for being nearly unintelligible. "You could practically run the place," he'd said once, "and all you'd need me for is to write up documents."  
  
John,  
I know how you like it, bad news in a good way. Here we go, then, my best efforts. I'm a desperate man at the moment, so make allowances.  
I think you'll be pleased to know that I'm not dead yet, although I may as well be. Between "headaches" and That Time of the Month, I've managed to hold off the bridal bed-visualize a shudder here-for two months or so now, and I'm tempted to think that I might kill myself first, if I wasn't afraid she'd bring me back again. Self-preservation be damned.  
I hope all is well in the Tower-I share your relief in your getting out of the stocks, although I don't know how much better imprisonment and torture is; I know that we took time, in our reign, to make it a particularly unpleasant experience. Hopefully your brother's reputation for justice precedes him, and they've fixed things up over there.  
Dear God, here she comes again. Hope you're well, I'll write again when I can.   
Gulp.  
  
Rottingham  
  
He, not for the first time, stifled a chuckle, carefully sealing the letter and placing it in his hiding place with the others. Rottingham's letters had kept him calm after his days in the stocks, comforted him in the dungeon, occasionally reminded him that someone else had it worse than he did. He wasn't sure if it was pathetic or somewhat meaningful that they were all the companionship he needed.  
Brief snippets of text stood out in his mind, as they were inclined to often. The ex-sheriff had been spared Latrine's bedside "charms"...so far. It wasn't enough peril, however, to not remember John's own numerous difficulties. And there had been references to "our rule"..."our", not John's, not the sheriff's, but the two of them together, side by side, the partnership clear. As it indeed had been.  
The quickening of his heartbeat at that thought was familiar enough to not annoy him now; he was just relieved he didn't blush. The thoughts themselves, of course, were ages old, however much he tried to suppress them now.   
  
They dated back to Richard's first times on the throne, moments when he was just the black sheep of a younger brother, when Rottingham was just a hopeful newcomer to the lawman scene, and they had first met through the mere coincidence of association. The sheriff-to-be was dark, pompous, and had a bad British accent. John was smitten, of course.  
And when Richard went to the crusades, that certainly hadn't changed. He wondered if Rottingham had known it, had figured it out somewhere between his quick promotion to sheriff and his even quicker upgrading to John's advisor. The ever-attentive listening to his new partner's plans, plans that would make them very rich and utterly despised by the people, and the carrying out of those first fledgling ideas without hesitation. It should have been obvious to the world, the sheriff himself be damned, that it wasn't for himself that John did what he did. But in his mind, there was no word for it, no expression or a concept that could put his reason for all of this, into something concievable.  
It had seemed to first hit him-repeatedly, over the head, with a large hammer-when he had spoken with Latrine. Damnable witch she was, he could still remember her coos and cackles over Rottingham, the likeness she kept hidden in the depths of her chambers, and most hateable of all, the gleeful knowledge of what she saw in John's eyes. His disgust, his pain, his jealousy...and finally, the calm he attempted to keep in his voice, as he responded plainly.   
"I'm amazed that a handsome brave like Rottingham would ever want a creature like you."  
But the witch had threatened to destroy his plans, allow Robin of Locksley to succeed, ruin the perfect bliss of the prince and his advisor and (he dreamed) would-be lover. Sometimes, there were sacrifices to be made, and so he made the promise...after all, why *would* Rottingham choose such an ancient witch if there was so much better to be offered?   
And he hadn't meant Maid Marion.  
  
Time passed. If Rottingham hadn't suspected anything before, he most certainly had to now, in the subtle motions of John's hand over his, the occasional looks exchanged, the almost intimate tension when they were alone. Marion's consent to marry the sheriff, in order to free Robin, was like a dagger to John's heart, his voice betraying him with a hint of nervousness as he tried to make light of the event.   
While Locksley's companions were gathering to become a merry band of fools, every moment in the palace was being spent in agony. The day was filled with tension as the sheriff planned for his wedding, and John waited for the immenent end, in one way or another, to days that in retrospect seemed so happy now.  
That day, everything changed.  
Their eyes had connected again, this time when they were alone together. Rottingham had been bragging about the event only moments before, speaking of Marion's beauty, of her coveted virginity, of the love he supposedly held for her, so intense it was absurd. But suddenly, he had turned knowing eyes to John, and smirked.  
"You know that I was using you, don't you?"  
John released a sigh, wondering how deeply he should care. "I figured as much. We didn't exactly know each other well, then."  
"No, we didn't, did we?"  
A heavy pause. Why now? John thought. Why in God's name were they saying all this *now*?   
"I trusted you, though," John managed to say, trying to break the dead air. "For whatever reason, I trusted that you knew what you were doing. Bad advice, though." He chuckled weakly. "Got Locksley on our tails, but I guess that turned out for the best."  
The sheriff smirked cruelly. "You *knew* it was bad advice, John."  
"Rottingham-"  
"Bloody awful advice, in fact. You're not stupid, after all." John flushed under the sheriff's gaze as the darker man ruthlessly continued. "You knew that you'd get a lot of perks and a lot of hate, and possibly your neck snapped once Richard got back, and if you don't know by now why you did it-"  
"Marion's yours in less than a day, *Mervyn*. What more do you want?"  
The use of Rottingham's first name had always bothered him. Only John knew what the humiliating moniker was, in fact. And maybe that explained why the sheriff didn't leave him to his anger. Or maybe, for once, the ever-calm inflection of the prince's voice had shown enough pain and hurt to move the other man's heart. To this day, he didn't know for sure.  
"You didn't let me finish, you know." A pause. "It's more than that now. Much more. Do you know that, too, or are you too busy feeling sorry for yourself?"  
He'll marry Marion, John thought, and he'll screw her senseless on the wedding night, and he'll have everything he wants, and it'll be because I was an idiot, because...of...  
"What do you mean?"  
Rottingham paused, considering his words carefully. He released them, however, in a spurt of senselessness. "Friend I you life trust-"  
"You're doing it again, Mervyn, make *sense*."  
"Calling stop that me!!" A deep breath, and then he managed the words.   
"You're my *friend*, John. I would trust you with my life. With everything I have, with whatever I could give because...because damnit, you knew all I wanted from you was gold coins with my picture on them, and a way to get into a hot virgin's skirts, and you *love* me."  
There was a long pause, heavy, filled with tension. Neither of them had ever called it something so heavy before, like a world so madcap and absurd had no room for it, outside of some emerald-clad archer and his girlfriend with iron underwear whispering to each other under the table in the middle of a brawl.   
But that didn't mean that the sheriff had been wrong. The comfort between them in a brief moment, the silent understandings, the little strengths and flaws and bad habits that were so clear and familiar...who could really be surprised?  
"Advise me."  
Rottingham lifted his head, momentarily surprised by the broken silence. "What?"  
"Advise me. I'm in love, with someone who will never want me, someone who could never care about me past a certain point, who'll be married by tomorrow. The only person who could stop it from happening is a sworn enemy, who could destroy our lives and certainly wouldn't mind doing it. What..." He swallowed briefly. "What do I do?"  
The other man's dark eyes flashed, in anger, in pain. Perhaps there was a tinge of regret. Finally, he spoke. "Forget. Forget that you cared, forget what could have been, and forget this conversation ever happened."  
"That's terrible news, Mervyn."  
"There's no good way to put it, John."  
"And damn shitty advice, too."  
"Yes. I know."  
  
The first night in the stocks, after the wedding had been stopped and the plans failed, he had held back the shame, the anger, the longing. He had beaten down every desire for comforting words in a horrible British drawl, making him chuckle and soothing him at the same time. He tried to pretend the cold didn't exist, so he didn't have to long for a hand over his, the sparks flickering through his body at the contact of flesh, the sudden warmth. That night, the first letter had come. There was no indication of what had passed between them that day, but John had still chuckled on reading it. It seemed that Rottingham couldn't even follow his own advice.  
  
He had never gone so far back in his memory before, had never forced himself to not forget, not suppress the longing. But now, he picked up his own pen, and he began to write.   
  
Mervyn,  
I felt like writing back this time. Yeah, I know that you hate the name, but I figured I'd get your attention, maybe break through the clouds of despair for a moment. Get you pissed at someone else besides Shithouse the Sorceress.  
The tower is decent-they give enough food, you get used to sleeping on the stone floor after a while, and somehow they've trusted me with a pen and paper. They're too busy to inflict major torture on me unless they're bringing a tour group through-visualize a wince-but that's become bearable by now. Thanks for asking. But that's not why I'm responding.  
I'm going to give you bad advice. I think I owe you some, although its harder to give than I thought it would be.  
The day will come, soon. Chances are you can't avoid her trying to bed you, not forever. So when it happens, close your eyes. Pretend you're making love to...Marion, for example. From the Tower rumor mill, I hear that it took a few days for the locksmith to mold a key that unlocks her belt. And to put the final nail in the coffin, she's a horrible conversationalist, and an even more pathetic fuck. Locksley's trying to get an annulment. I guess looks aren't everything.  
Now, this isn't the norm, but I guess there's a first time for everything. Black sheriffs, unhappily ever afters, villains with torrid love stories. And along with that comes some good advice to follow the bad. Complete with melodrama; eat your heart out.  
The day will come, so shut your eyes and think of someone who would be good for you. Who's already done everything to make that possible. Who regrets like hell that it wound up this way, and who can't wait for the day when he can get out of here and make sure you're free, too.  
I don't care how I can do it, but I'll get you away from her. It could be months, or years, but I've been giving the guards good behavior, so I'm sure it won't be long. Just wait for me. I'll help you escape, and you can come with me. You don't have to love me. It would be so perfect-you have no idea-just to be with you.   
That's the good news.  
  
John  
  



End file.
